Quills
by Mynuet
Summary: She thought that her writing was the thing most likely to help her be noticed as herself.


Just so no one gets excited, I should say at the outset that this has nothing to do with the movie Quills, or any kind of kink whatsoever. I got the idea from a Ginny LJ community's alphabet challenge, but then I went over their word count requirements and anyway they're all about the H/G there and I don't feel up to spearheading an invasion at the moment. Many thanks to ClanMalfoy for the super-fast response to my desperate plea for a beta. :D Much love for Adrith here.

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Ginny Weasley was very fussy about the kind of quills she used. Not for her the sugarquills beloved by most of the student body, since their dissolving properties made them useless for any kind of serious writing. She also eschewed the shoddy quills that came ten to a pack at all the cheap stores. She was saving up for a really good one, one which could be repaired and had nibs reinforced with silver or gold. The kind of quill that someone like Draco Malfoy took completely for granted, but that she never would, because she knew the worth of it. For now, she made do with the best she could afford, which ended up being the very bottom of the line of individually sold quills, with stronger barrels and parchment glued on to make the nib stronger.

She could probably get a moderately good one as a gift if she asked, but her family all seemed nervous whenever they noticed her writing anything that wasn't strictly necessary and so she didn't want to call attention to her love and respect for the written word. That was what it was about, really, her quill obsession. She had too much respect for the act of writing to cheapen it with substandard quills, and so she saved all the knuts she could and found the best bargains possible.

Now it was a Hogsmeade weekend and so she skulked into the stationery store, her hood up just in case her brother or his friends happened to glance her way. Just the night before Harry had noticed her sitting by the fire and writing and started an inquisition made all the worse by his obvious belief that he was being subtle. She didn't want to be ungrateful, and he _had _almost died while rescuing her, but she really didn't see the harm in her writing silly little fun stories that she could see in her head. Not everyone could be the mighty hero of thousands, and she rather thought she had some talent for writing. She was determined to be something more than the girl Harry had rescued once, or just the wife of someone who deigned to notice little Ginny. She wanted to be her own person, and she thought that her writing was the thing most likely to help her be noticed as herself.

Her name would have to go, though, because Ginny was too babyish and Ginevra wasn't to be thought of. As for the Weasley part... Well, she was proud of her family and heritage, but she wanted her books to be published under a name that didn't sound like a small furry animal. She made her way through the store to the display of quills and smiled a bit at her foolish thoughts. Maybe she should write something worth publishing first, and only then worry about what to name herself.

For now she had a new quill to buy, and she decided to indulge herself by looking at ones she couldn't afford before she browsed the discounted ones. The very best ones were in a locked case, but there were enough out on display to give her plenty of room to dream. She discarded the ones that were dyed fancy colors and the ones with excessive plumage; there was no reason whatsoever why a peacock feather would be necessary to write with, and anyway the height of it would make writing harder. She settled on a steel-nibbed quill made of a black swan's wing feather and tested it against her finger, enjoying the sensation of the sharp point and the smooth feather running over her skin.

There was a small inkpot and a scratch parchment laid out, and she couldn't resist the temptation. She dipped the quill carefully into the ink, making sure not to overload it. Carefully, each letter defined and clear, she wrote on the parchment, "I want to remember how to pray, because I can't breathe from the weight of my illusory choices."

She looked at it for a moment, unsatisfied with the structure of the sentence, but before she could scratch it out a hand came past her and picked up the parchment. She turned around and saw cold grey eyes burning in a handsome face, and she flushed to think what he might say about her private thoughts.

He didn't say anything, though, not for such a long time that the blood drained from her cheeks and she started to wonder if she'd offended him somehow. Maybe he didn't like a Weasley getting above her station by looking at such expensive items. She wiped the pen hurriedly on her sleeve and put it back, trying not to cower in the face of his assessing gaze. He didn't make a move to stop her, just stared at her with an intensity that made her feel like he was learning everything about her, every secret thought and dream she had and every bit of the darkness she'd have liked to think didn't exist. She hurried away and didn't stop until she'd run all the way back to the castle, feeling like his eyes were on her the entire time.

The next morning, at breakfast, his eyes were there again, and she shivered. She'd never been worthy of Draco Malfoy's attention, and she preferred it that way. Having him look at her was unnerving, and she could barely stand to put any food in her mouth with him watching. Finally she couldn't stand it any more and stood, sneaking an apple into her bag even as she felt stupid for hiding it. She found a quiet corner where she could be relatively unseen while waiting for Filch to start checking students out for Hogsmeade and sat down, pulling out her journal and the apple.

"Here." She had gotten so involved in writing that she hadn't realized she was still holding the denuded apple core, let alone the approaching footsteps. Now she had to blink to refocus her eyes and determine what the object was that had been thrust in front of her face. "And if you ever make me play messenger boy again, I'll hex you."

She was gaping at him stupidly, but she didn't think she was capable of anything else. For Malfoy, that had been a downright cheery conversational gambit, and he was still holding out a parcel to her. When she hesitated in reaching for it, remembering the last time a Malfoy had given her something, he shook his head and dropped it in her lap. "See you around, Weasley."

It was impossible not to look. Probably it would've been wiser to have it checked out for curses or hexes or other magic of dark intent, but she couldn't stand waiting. She did a quick check for herself, but wasn't surprised that there was nothing; this was much too complex a setup for Malfoy to bother with when he could have just hurt her directly.

Inside the package were quills, ten of them, but nothing like the ones that came in a pack. They had metal sheathed points and were made of different feathers, swan and duck and pheasant and even one white turkey feather which looked frightfully elegant. There were several pots of ink, all but one of them the kind of high quality India ink that looked a true black on the page, not the hesitant grey of the ink she normally used. The one remaining pot was an ink she'd heard of but not seen, because she wasn't important enough for anyone to bother sending her something which no one else could read.

Or maybe she was, because there was a note tucked in the side of the box, and when she unfolded it the letters had the slight sheen of active magic. She read it through as she absorbed that she'd actually received correspondence from Draco _Malfoy_, of all people, and then she had to read it again to understand what the note actually said. It wasn't by any means romantic or even friendly; if she had to pick an adjective, it would be "businesslike". He addressed her as Ms. Weasley and signed off with his full name, and the note was only sentences long. "Enclosed you will find payment in full for my purchase of yesterday. I appreciate your assistance in clarifying my position, and may contact you again for similar services in the future."

She read it through again, tracing over the spiky writing as if physical contact would help her understand. What services? It took her a moment to remember the parchment she'd scribbled on, and then another moment further to remember what it was she'd written. Could it be that he felt the same way, that that was what he meant by clarifying his position? It was unbelievable, but now that she'd thought it she couldn't think of another interpretation that fit.

On impulse, she pulled out the pot of personal ink and the shabbiest quill in the box, which happened to be the one she'd used the day before, and tore a page out of her journal. She didn't chew on the end of her quill, because that would make it wear out faster, but she did chew on her thumbnail as she struggled for the right words. Finally, she dipped the quill into the ink and wrote,

_Dear Mr. Malfoy:_

_I accept your generous payment, and would be happy to discuss further commissions. Please contact me at your convenience; I believe that we can come to understand each other quite well._

_Sincerely,_

_Ms. G. Weasley_

She folded it carefully and sealed it with a spell before writing Draco's name carefully on the outside. Before she had finished gathering her things to go to the Owlery, though, she found his hand once again in front of her, although this time it was empty. She placed hers into it and he helped her to stand, then looked discreetly away as she dusted off her bum. The note was almost forgotten as she wondered what to say, but he took it from her and opened it right there and then.

"That's the second time I've had to deliver your mail, Weasley." He didn't sound angry, precisely, but he didn't sound friendly and she wondered if she'd made a mistake. She hastily stuffed her journal into her bag and slung it onto her shoulder, then clutched the parcel to her chest and started to shuffle away.

He stopped her by putting his hand on her chin and forcing her to meet his eyes. "I am in receipt of your letter, Ms. Weasley, and believe that it merits further discussion... Over lunch, perhaps?"

The intensity of his eyes was still unnerving, but the feeling in the pit of her stomach had changed, lightened, and she felt a rush of courage. "Do we have to talk like bankers the whole time?"

A smile, small and crooked but still definitely a smile, broke over his face. "Maybe."

She smiled back and felt like maybe that small movement, the moment of fellow feeling with someone completely unexpected, might be the first step towards finding her own place in the world.


End file.
